When Life Gives You Lemons
by Criminal Behavior
Summary: The winners of the game show "When Life Gives You Lemons" will win five hundred grand. Jason needs the money, and Freddy...well, Freddy just wants attention. Rated for later chapters and Freddy's mouth.
1. Produce a Game Show Starring Murderers

When Life Gives You Lemons

Chapter One

When Life Gives You Lemons…Produce a Reality/Game Show Starring Serial Killers

**~A/N~ **So this is the first story on FF of mine that is A) multi-chaptered and B) not a school assignment. Also, this thing is TOTAL crack. Like, I don't even know. Seriously. I just felt the need to bring this into the world. O_o

Warnings: Slash. Language. OOC-ness. OCs. Eventual Fr…ason? Jeddy. Um, you know what I'm getting at. **~A/N~**

The twelve disgruntled businessmen sat around the polished oblong table bouncing ideas off of one another. Harvey Ross, irritated, perched his hand atop his fist. He had heard it all before. The ideas of his colleagues were mediocre at best and would draw only a few bored fans. It seemed as if all the _good _reality and game show concepts had already been taken.

"What about you, Ross?"

Harvey grunted in response to the query, annoyed that his solitude had been interrupted. He glanced sidelong at inquirer, a short, balding man with glasses that magnified his piggy little eyes. Sighing, Harvey replied, "The only idea I've had today that didn't suck or hadn't already been done in some form or another would probably break the law."

The man, who Harvey had known as a George Pescucci, a long-time business associate of his, shrugged. "It's not like anybody else has come up with anything good today," he conceded.

Harvey glanced warily about the table, his quick blue eyes skimming over the ten other men, hyped up on coffee and shouting out ridiculous concepts for their program's new show. Seeing that no one was paying him any attention, he grabbed George's shoulder and hissed, "I'll tell you outside. Wouldn't want to give anything away."

Nodding silently, George followed Harvey as he pushed his chair away and exited the conference room. The taller man gave a quick look up and down the hallway to check if anyone in another room would hear them. Deciding to play it completely safe, Harvey waved a hand behind him as he stalked out to the empty balcony at the end of the corridor. Once George had caught up to him, Harvey slid the glass door closed behind them and leaned precariously against the railing, arms crossed over his chest.

"Like I said," he began, "What I have in mind would probably be illegal. But things are just so immoral today that personally, I don't think very many people would mind."

There was a woman's scream from far below, causing George to jump and Harvey to frown, aggravated by the interruption. The two men glanced over the side of the balcony to see a police officer beating up a prostitute, after which he took her wig, placed it atop his head, and drove off, blaring the car's siren. Harvey's frown morphed into a grin, his point proven perfectly. "There you go," he said smugly. "Immorality at its finest."

George backed away from the railing, wiping his sweaty brow on the sleeve of his jacket. "Well, yes, I see your point. Continue."

Harvey dipped his head and carried on with vigor, "The contestants will be in teams of two. Each pair will be forced to live together, and they will be competing against the other partners. They will compete in different contests: they will be tested on cooperation, endurance, trivia, survival, talent…in short, it will be every game show and reality show you can think of…combined."

"That's clever…" George replied, nodding his head, an appreciative look upon his plump countenance. "You'll have to come up with the individual competitions, of course, but…"

Harvey threw back his head, laughing heartily. "But that's never been a problem for me, has it? It never has, and it never will be," he announced proudly. "Anyway, this is where the tricky part comes in. The contestants…the only _eligible _contestants…will be sworn enemies. And they can't just waltz in claiming to hate each other. The world has to _know _that the two have personal vendettas against each other."

George grinned, liking Harvey's idea very much. "I see what you're getting at," he said. "Public enemies…working together…against other public enemies. Ha, that will be doubly difficult for them. Did you have anyone in particular in mind?"

Though Harvey shrugged, trying to seem unsure, he knew exactly what types of enemies he had in mind. "Oh, I don't know," he said with false uncertainty. "But…I was sort of thinking…murderer enemies." He looked up at his companion, a wolfish grin spreading across his face and a devilish glint in his sharp blue eyes.

George had gone pale. "Are you…serious?"

"Oh, come now," Harvey pleaded without a trace of desperation. Rolling his shoulders in time with his eyes, he reasoned, "You know I used to be an FBI agent before the Bureau crashed. I've dealt with killers before and believe me, Georgie, they are _all _bark…and no bite."

Though George tried not to be swayed by Harvey's words, he had to admit that the man did know what he was doing.

"And plus," Harvey continued, waving his hand in the thick August air. "Even if one of them _did _try to pull something funny, you know me. Not to mention all those burly security guards we've employed in the past."

George nodded dumbly, giving in to Harvey's persuasiveness. He would easily be able to handle any attack from some thug. Plus, his immorality statement was painfully obvious. He held out a sweaty hand in his partner's direction. "Sounds like a plan," he confessed, a grin beginning to pull at his lips.

Harvey's feral grin widened, displaying his wicked canines. Grasping the smaller man's hand and shaking it vigorously, he proclaimed triumphantly, "I knew you'd see it my way, old boy. Now let's get back in there and tell those other goons what we've got."

Without giving George time to think, Harvey wrenched open the sliding glass door and reentered the building, refreshingly cool compared to the humid summer heat. The short man hurried behind him, his small strides barely able to keep him in step behind his friend. "Wait—" he said, poking impatiently at Harvey's shoulder.

"Yes?"

"What were you thinking of calling this show?"

Harvey glanced down at George, his grin still boldly present. "Something along the lines of…'When Life Gives You Lemons.'"

* * *

Nothing could possibly be better. All of his pathetic associates—as predicted—had applauded Harvey's idea, and within the next week, the set was being built and the show was appearing all over the commercials. Harvey basked complacently in his victory, simply delighting in becoming the host of his project.

At the moment, he was sitting cross-legged in a folding chair he had brought to the set, watching the builders erect it before his eyes. It was coming out rather well—it would appeal to a bunch of serial killers, at least. Dark colors, systematically broken and dreary furniture… Oh yes, his little contestants would be quite at home here.

George Pescucci, credited with the title of co-producer (or as Harvey liked to think, sidekick), was as giddy with excitement and anxiety as Harvey himself, if not more so. He waddled into the room, standing in front of Harvey and blocking the delightful view of sweaty construction workers with his short, stocky frame. He danced from foot to foot jerkily, and Harvey wondered in annoyance if the man had simply approached him to ask for permission to use the restroom.

"Yes, George?"

The small man held aloft a large envelope, grinning from ear to ear. "We have some applications, Ross. Nothing too major, mind you, but these two are known to dislike each other."

Harvey took the envelope from George's hand, opening it in curiosity. Peering at the mug shots, criminal records, and applications of the killers who had entered, he tapped his knee thoughtfully. It was true; the pair of murderers in the envelope weren't extremely well known, but they would do unless booted out by better candidates. Harvey pushed his sunglasses up into his hair and handed the information back to George. "Thank you, Georgie. Put these on my desk, will you? I'll think them over."

George took the applications and nodded, hurrying away and leaving Harvey to himself once more.

_This is certainly going to be fun…_

**~A/N~** Compared to my stuff on Fictionpress, this is a very, very short chapter. I doubt they'll be very long at all in this story anyway. Um…but since this is technically my first work here that's all my own idea, don't be too hard on me, please. XD I warned you it was going to be pure crack. **~A/N~**


	2. Hitch a Ride to San Diego

**Chapter Two**

**When Life Gives You Lemons…**

**Hitch a Ride to San Diego**

**~A/N~ **Happy Friday the 13th! :D Yes, yes it _is _August 13, 2010, and it is a Friday, and I promised myself I'd get Jason's intro chap up on this particular day. =3 Hope you all enjoy! **~A/N~**

You'd think that a worn-down shack hidden in a thick, grim wood would be a notorious serial killer's dream home. You'd think the moldy walls, the mildewed, sagging stairs, and the infestation of insects and vermin would be appealing to someone whose hobby was hacking unsuspecting innocents into bloody bits.

…Not so in the case of Jason Voorhees.

The masked villain surveyed his ramshackle abode sourly. He noted with particular disdain a large puddle that had formed from drops of rainwater seeping through a leak in the roof. The killer took the sight of this in with the scornful thought: _This place…is _such_…a dump. _Jason flexed his gloved grip on his machete, about to dash the blade of the weapon into the floor. _One more flaw couldn't make any difference. _With but an angry flick of the wrist, the machete's blade stuck fast into the weak floorboards, shattering the frail wood around it and leaving a mass of large splinters in its wake. At first, this result was very satisfying to the killer, but after a moment, Jason frowned behind his mask, not having intended to cause _that _much destruction. _Either I don't know my own strength, or this place is in worse shape than I thought._

After a moment, Jason's thoughts wandered ponderously. _How much money would it take to get this hovel repaired? _In despair, he added silently, _Probably a fortune, and it's not like I have any money whatsoever. _Nevertheless, he began to wonder what it would be like to have the broken-down hut fixed up. The stairs out front would no longer creak or sag, the walls would hold whenever he lost his temper and tried to punch holes in them, the ceiling wouldn't leak puddles onto the carpet that couldn't even be classified as a carpet anymore, it was so soiled and worn into the floor. _What if it was more like a cottage, set in the middle of the woods?_ A concealed grin spread longingly in Jason's mind. Then any visitors to Camp Crystal Lake who happened to get lost in the woods wouldn't think twice about seeking refuge in the cute little house among the trees. As it was, people naturally avoided his rotting little habitat, assuming it was the dwelling of some hermit or creep. Not that they were entirely wrong in their presumptions, but to have the prey walk right into the den of the predator? The thought nearly overjoyed the villain with the possibilities, and Jason began to subconsciously procure a scenario of twisted and wonderful proportions.

_A girl would stumble, afraid, through the trees and bushes, having forgotten the way back to her camp. She would spy with glee the hidden cottage, and run up to the door, rapping fiercely as if her life depended on it. The door would "magically" swing inwards, and she'd take an awed, grateful look around inside. She might fiddle with some trinkets upon the mantle, might settle for a short rest on a couch or chair. She wouldn't hear Jason come up behind her, no; he'd had years of practice. If a killer knows one thing, it's silence. Stealth. Surprise. Ha, surprise. Not even a chance to think and the swing of the killer's machete would have her head rolling on the carpet, her mouth forever frozen in a soundless "O" of shock._

Jason shook his head, bringing himself from the fantasy that would be so perfect if his shack weren't such an utter _wreck. _He allowed himself a resigned sigh of frustration before wrenching his weapon from the destroyed floorboards, listening intently to the sounds of the forest.

Outside, it was usually silent, even this deep in the woods. There would sometimes be the hoot of an owl or the chatter of a chipmunk, but the main soundtrack was that of crickets, which Jason despised. He would listen to the sound, imaging the chirping symphony a mockery of him, like the sound of an awkward joke that nobody understood.

But _tonight…_there was something more.

The sound couldn't possibly be misinterpreted: it was the jovial, loud laughter of teenagers, probably out on a legend trip. _ They will not be disappointed in their hunt for legend, _Jason thought with renewed spirit. Gripping his machete, he chanced a glance out of one of the grimy, cracked windows.

There were two of them—probably an item—a girl with long brown hair and a boy sporting a bright red baseball cap. Jason snorted. _What is he, an idiot? He's like a target with that traffic light on his head. _

The two laughed and talked, not bothering to be quiet or careful, and not paying much attention to the hut before them. Resting against a broad-trunked tree nearby, they hugged, cuddling and whispering to each other. Even in the heart of the woods, they were perfectly happy just to have the other's company.

_How sickening. _

Slipping silently out the back, Jason was able to stalk the pair easily, using the boy's hat as a beacon. He masked his presence behind trees and bushes, easing his way closer to the couple, as a lion does when about to take down an antelope.

The two teenagers didn't so much as glance in his direction—this was getting far too simple. Before they could react, he had leapt from behind another wide-trunked tree and hurled the boy to the ground, blocking his windpipe with a steel-toed boot. He didn't want to crush the kid's throat—no, he'd let him watch as he murdered his little girlfriend first. Speaking of whom, in the same movement, Jason had her pinned to her own tree, machete at the ready. He ignored her whimpers, and the strangled threats of the boy beneath his foot. Instead, he placed the edge of the blade under her chin, wondering whether a simple decapitation would suffice, or if he could have a bit of fun in the killing. It was always good to be creative, right?

Jason decided that first he would scalp the girl, leaving her bereft of her lush brown curls, and the skin that held it to her skull. Just as he raised his machete to her hairline, the girl shouted (which, Jason thought, was rather unnecessary, as he was standing right in front of her), trying to keep her composure, "Wait!"

Jason Voorhees was not one to "wait" when a victim begged for mercy, and he was not stalled by her plea.

"Can't we make a deal?" As if he hadn't heard that one before. But the girl persisted, even as the blade was pressed to her scalp. "I—I know how to get you noticed! You—you'll be famous! And you'll win five hundred grand! Please, let me explain! Even if you do kill me, just let me explain!"

Though the girl continued to ramble and plead, Jason had stopped listening after the words "five hundred grand." Surely that would be enough to get his "house" fixed up? He lowered his machete from the girl's hairline to show he was willing to listen, but kept her trapped against the tree trunk.

Her chest heaved with relief, and she smiled widely despite her still-dire situation. Her voice took on a breathless quality, eager to get out all she knew. "There's this game show that they're setting up—it's targeted specifically at notorious killers. You won't be persecuted or anything—it's not a trick–I've looked into it! I know someone who helps run it! It's not a scam, I promise!" She raised her hands slightly as if to show she was telling the truth. "Even if you don't win, they'll let you go, they won't lock you up or anything. And if you do win, you get five hundred thousand dollars—and fame! I mean, of course everyone knows you from the movies, so you don't need that, but, but… And I'm not sure what you'd do with five hundred grand, but—"

Jason quieted her by holding his machete carefully to her lips, so as to silence the girl, but not cut her. Though he hadn't killed in a while and had been hankering for the thrill of it, he was intrigued by the proposition she presented. Perhaps they could come to an understanding. …If she could prove her claim, that is. Jason nodded sharply to indicate that he wanted something substantial regarding this "game show." He wouldn't be fooled by a seventeen-year-old girl. He also wouldn't speak directly to her, though he could if he wanted. They would have to make do with tacit communication.

Fortunately, the girl seemed to understand Jason's request and gasped, "Oh, right! Right, you'd want documentation, of course. I have—I have a flyer right here!" She pulled a folded and slightly crumpled piece of paper and held it out desperately in front of her. "Here, take a look at that—and if you don't believe that, I can—I can show you on my phone, if you'd trust me enough to take it out."

Carefully, Jason lowered his machete and slid it under his belt, as if sheathing a sword. He hated to put it down, but he had to keep his hold on the girl lest she try to make a run for it. With his newly freed hand, Jason took the flyer from the girl's surprisingly steady hand and unfolded it.

"WANTED," it read at the top, with an illustration of an eclectic group of comic book villains underneath the title. Jason scanned the information at the bottom of the flyer—it seemed the girl was telling the truth, for it seemed legitimate. Some man by the name of Harvey Ross (who, if the flyer was anything to go by, was a big-shot game show producer) was sending out for known killers to be contestants on his latest production, "When Life Gives You Lemons." Satisfied, Jason re-folded the paper and nodded to show his acquiescence in the negotiation, and handed it back to the girl, who was still breathing heavily and smiling as if she had just won the lottery. In fact, she had, in a way. It wasn't every day that Jason Voorhees made a pact with his prey.

"You can even come with us," she prattled on. "It's hosted in San Diego, and I don't suppose you have any means of going there yourself. You can hitch a ride with us! M-My friends and I, we're all traveling there by bus, in fact, to go to SDCC—uh, San Diego Comic Con. But, but, you have to promise not to murder any of my friends," the girl finished, knotting her brow and pursing her lips indignantly. It was almost laughable, this teenager striking up a deal with a known and deadly killer and laying down the rules of the arrangement. At Jason's slow nod, the girl brightened and added, "And, uh, could you please stop choking my boyfriend? He—he won't hurt you, you can let him up."

Jason looked down at the boy beneath his feet. His hat had become dislodged and lay next to him on the ground. His face was nearly blue, and his lips were an alarming purple. He gasped for breath like a fish that had flopped onto land. Jason lifted his foot in mercy, not realizing he had been pressing so hard on the boy's windpipe. In turn, the blue-faced teenager scrambled away and pushed himself to his feet, coughing for breath and stumbling awkwardly. Jason then loosened his grip from the girl, and she slowly moved away from him to thump her boyfriend on the back repeatedly.

"Breathe, Mike," she demanded, still whacking him on the back. "Deep breaths."

"I'm fine, Jen," he wheezed, pushing her hand gently away and drawing up to his full height, only to kneel and retrieve his hat. Once he had it fastened firmly on his head, the couple turned back to Jason and the girl—Jen—said, "Well, uh, follow us, we can leave for San Diego right away."

For a moment, Jason turned back to look at his shack, the home he'd be leaving. There was nothing to claim from it. He had his mask and his machete, and that was all he would ever need. He returned his gaze to the two teenagers, and began to follow them through the woods, ready to leave Camp Crystal Lake behind, for the meantime, at least.

Mike and Jen were traveling with two other people—another couple. There was Allison, a plump blond girl with red horn-rimmed glasses and a Watchmen t-shirt, and Joey, a skinny, pale boy with thick glasses and messy black hair. Both were struck with what seemed to be a combined sense of reverence, awe, and fear at the sight of Jason and the notion of him traveling with them in the same vehicle.

Jen, however, was not one for dawdling, and quickly herded everyone into their large, brightly painted bus like a flock of sheep.

Once Jason was inside the bus, Joey cornered him straightaway. "So, like…how many people have you killed?"

Jason blinked, and then rolled his eyes. This was going to be a long ride.

A bunk had been designated to Jason, underneath Allison, who had claimed the top one. Every once in a while she would lean over the side with a flashlight, despite the fact that it was 11:30 and she should be sleeping. "Can I see your machete?" she would hiss. "Can you talk at all, or do you just choose not to?" Presently, it was 11:54 and Allison's current question was full of passion.

"So what do you really look like?" she asked. "Can I see? Please? I don't judge, I swear, and I won't laugh. I mean, we can't even see your hair. That's just not fair."

Jason wore a black beanie under his mask, completely shielding his identity from any prying eyes. In response to Allison's questioning, Jason fished around the floor for a scrap of paper and pen. He scribbled on it and passed the piece of paper up to Allison, who snatched it eagerly. She looked at the few words on it and glanced back down at him, saying simply, "Gotcha," before turning her flashlight off at last.

Jason turned on his side in satisfaction. He wouldn't sleep, but he could at least rest now that Allison had decided to leave him alone.

The note had said just this:

"Please go to sleep, or I will make sure you do. Permanently."

**~A/N~ **These four characters are minor people, but I just need them for the moment. Hope the chapter was enjoyable, though! =D Next chapter will be Freddy's intro chap. ;) **~A/N~**


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